


Last Resort

by KeepCalmLoveSeverus



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: EWE, F/M, Hansy - Freeform, the rating is for language only, tumblr drabble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-30
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-27 22:16:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8419324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KeepCalmLoveSeverus/pseuds/KeepCalmLoveSeverus
Summary: Pansy is a reporter. Harry is a hermit.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hexmionegranger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hexmionegranger/gifts).



“Look, Potter, I get it. You hate being the Boy Who Lived Twice, you hate having all this attention, and you’d rather be living under a rock somewhere than sitting on the first new Wizengamot seat created in three centuries.” Her sneer became even more pronounced, if that was possible. “However, fate has seen to it that you and I are stuck in this room because for some reason known only to Merlin and you, you refused to do this interview with any of the other Witch Weekly reporters who would probably literally chew off their arm to talk to you.” And hadn't it stuck in all those petty bitches’ throats that he'd demanded she be the one to speak with him? She'd been lording it over everyone (subtly) all week.

She had no idea why he'd chosen her, since she was barely one step up from working in the mail room and probably always would be. (No one had wanted to hire the girl who had wanted to sell Savior Potter out to the Dark Lord for some odd reason, and it had taken cashing in some serious blackmail to even get the position she had.)

Coming back to the point, she finished with, “You don't want to be here, and I don't know why I'm here, but I do know that interviews usually go better if the person being interviewed actually speaks.”

That caught Potter’s attention, even if the way it was expressed was a scoff. A few more minutes of silence left Pansy twitching and seriously contemplating stabbing him in the hand with her quill.

Fed up, she stood and began packing her things in her bag. Well, if packing involved slamming everything haphazardly into her bag and not caring if it got ruined. After all, she'd already been informed that if this interview didn't go perfectly she'd be “let go.”

“Not that you care, Potter,” she ranted with enough acid to dissolve dragonhide, “but this was my last chance to prove I'm not a worthless Death Eater, so thank you for mucking that up, I hope you enjoy reducing all us lowly Slytherins to penury and begging, it's not like we were frightened children, and another thing! Why the fuck does it matter if I wanted to hand you over, since you fucking waltzed out to him anyway!” She figured if she was getting fired, she may as well do it in style; if she wasn't employed by Witch Weekly, she wasn't required to be nice to their Golden Gooseboy.

Funnily enough, her rant seemed to catch his attention, and he grabbed her by the arm as she flounced by him, intent on leaving with as much pride as she possibly could. She'd sat there already for an hour, asking him questions and getting no response at all. She had held her patience as tight as she could, but even she had her limits, and this was the last straw.

“Parkinson… Don't.” He spoke slowly, as if he'd almost forgotten how. In a house this creepy, it was possible that one of the portraits or artifacts had stolen his voice, which she'd spent the first fifteen minutes considering as an angle, then discarding on the basis it was too easy to prove wrong. After all, he still spoke with the Granger chit. Not Weasley, though. Apparently the whole family had cut him off after his relationship with the Girl Weasel had crashed and burned -- something she had tried asking about, actually, if only to rile him up.

“Don't what, Potter?” she asked snidely, shaking her wrist out of his grip.

“Don't go.” His voice was raspy, which only added to his general air of being neglected. His clothes were several sizes too big, same as they had been in school, and his hair looked like it hadn't seen a brush in months. All in all, not what Pansy had expected from the Boy Who Lived to Be a Pain In The Arse. He should be living it up, out partying and creating laws designed to make the world a better place (probably spoonfed to him by that Mud-ggleborn), but instead he'd barely been seen out of his house since the end of the war. People were gossiping.

Pansy knew weakness when she saw it. After all, she looked in the mirror every day. It looked better on him than her; she felt an odd urge to bundle him up in a blanket and spoon feed him hot cocoa. Which, of course, just made her act nastier. Weaknesses had to be buried deep, after all. And she'd always had a soft spot for this asshole, for some inexplicable reason; almost as bad as Draco’s obsession, if she were being honest with herself, but she was better at hiding it than the Malfoy scion had been.

“Why shouldn't I?” she demanded, but she set her bag back down and eased herself onto the moldy cushion she'd sat on previously.

“I asked for you because I knew you'd tell the truth,” he admitted after a long pause. “The last three girls just wanted to get in my trousers, or make me out to be a dashing tragic hero. It almost made me wish Skeeter was still writing.”

Pansy smirked at his grimace. “Unfortunately for you, your friend Granger saw to it that she wouldn't be employed by anyone in Britain again after that last piece.” Which, really, had been way beyond the pale. Implying that Potter broke up with Weasley because he was holding a torch for his godfather was a bit much, and had no basis in reality. As far as she'd been able to figure, Weasley had wanted him to capitalize on his wealth, and he hadn't. Which hadn't been too difficult to suss out, given the gigantic row they had in the middle of Diagon Alley about it.

Potter frowned and rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “I didn't ask her to do that. I do miss Sirius, of course, but just because the rest of that article was bollocks doesn't mean I wanted her fired. She's said worse.” Potter didn't meet her eyes, but they were both thinking of fourth year.

After a few more moments of silence, he added, “This was his house, you know.”

Pansy had known, given the fact that she'd had to memorize every pureblood family tree by the age of six and could spot the Black Family crest on at least four different items in this sitting room alone. But it was a topic.

“Were you close?” she asked, reaching into her bag to grab her quill again.

“Not really,” he told her before clamming up again as he glanced at her equipment.

Sighing, she shoved it back out of sight. “Look, if you don't want to be interviewed properly then just say so.”

“I really don't,” he replied in a heartbeat. “But they kept hounding me, and Hermione said it might get people to lay off just a bit. I've had to redo my wards twice in the last month.” Pansy had, in fact, seen the clusters of people crowded outside his house as she'd apparated onto the front stoop.

Thinking quickly, something she'd been praised for back in her school days, Pansy hit upon an offer that might work out for the both of them.

“I have a business proposition for you, Potter.”

He raised an eyebrow at her, then nodded and shrugged at the same time, indicating his willingness to listen.

“You want all these people off your back. I want to not be a pariah. I could write an article about how you're a tortured soul who just needs peace and quiet to recover, but no one would listen.” He started to look impatient, and she got to the point rather quicker than her Slytherin sensibilities were happy about. “On the other hand, I could write an article about how you just needed someone to see the real you to open up to, because our readership eats that nonsense up, and how we reconnected over lunch in Diagon Alley, because to be honest I'm starving. We fake date for a few months with sporadic public appearances, and then when we break up you have a solid reason to stay in your house all day every day because of course you were head over heels for me.”

He gave her a dry look at that last part, and she shrugged. “I am quite loveable.”

Pansy was surprised and pleased to hear Potter’s laugh, loud and carefree. “Parkinson, no one who knows you would believe any of that.”

“Well, of course not,” she agreed. “But we're talking about people who honestly thought that you wanted your godfather so badly that five years later you still aren't over him.” She tried not to feel stung that he didn't believe she was loveable. Everyone deserved love, or so the Gryffindors were supposed to think.

Potter looked her up and down, eyes wandering from her face down to her (slightly shabby because the war hadn't been as kind to her side as it had to his) dark purple robes and back up again. She could practically see his savior complex kick in, and felt a small bit of smugness leak into her expression.

“I'll do it.” Of course he would. “On one condition.”

“That's very Slytherin of you,” she played coy. “What is it?”

He sucked on the inside of his cheek, hollowing out his face even more and highlighting just how gaunt he was. She found herself idly contemplating breaking out Grandma Avery’s shepherd pie recipe and almost missed his stipulation.

“We should give the dating thing an honest go.” As demands went, it wasn't as bad as she'd been expecting, but she still narrowed her eyes at him, causing him to speak quickly. “You were never the worst at school, and besides we've all grown up since then. And,” here he smirked, “you've grown into your nose.”

She felt a small spark of outrage, but the smirk turned into something a bit more friendly, and she realized he was teasing her. With a theatrical sniff, she informed him, “Fine, but don't think you're going to turn me into a sycophant housewife like the Weasel would have been, because that's not going to fly. I have Plans.”

“I wouldn't dare,” he promised with a mock solemnity that she felt was probably an indication of how poorly this relationship would go.

When they got married a year and a half later, no one was more surprised than Pansy. 


End file.
